


Ultraviolet

by QuickLikeLight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Clublock, Dancing, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Semi-Public Sex, Sherlock Holmes / Victor Trevor unrequited, Soldier!John, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:06:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1429642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuickLikeLight/pseuds/QuickLikeLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's looking for someone to come down with; John's just looking to come. A meeting on the dance floor comes to mean something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redscudery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redscudery/gifts).



> FYI, for this fic, John is in his mid-to-late twenties, and Sherlock's just out of uni. 
> 
> Many thanks to [Nautilicious](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nautilicious/pseuds/nautilicious) for beta-ing this first chapter for me. If you haven't checked out their Texas Ranger AU, you should do that. ;) 
> 
> My song was U2's ["Ultraviolet."](http://www.sing365.com/music/lyric.nsf/Ultraviolet-Light-My-Way-lyrics-U2/F39756657B537C1D4825689600322467)

The slow grind of hips felt like home, as much as anything did anymore, and John lost himself in the rumbling thunder of music blaring from too-hot speakers. Brightly coloured strobe lights flashed over the black tiles of the club, turning sweaty skin brilliant shades of blue, green, and pink. The young woman swaying in front of him sank back against his hips and hands, resting her bleached-blonde head on his shoulder. She smelled like cigarettes and vodka and fruity perfume. John grinned as he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in the juncture of her neck and shoulder, murmuring the words to the song into her skin in a light tease. She shuddered a bit. They were pressed tight, close enough that she could probably feel the hard outline of his identification tags through his thin t-shirt. He let one hand slide casually up her side, caressing the skin stretched over her ribs through the thin silken material of her top. She giggled.

“Ticklish,” she mouthed as she turned her face toward his. Her mouth found his jaw and she slid slow, breathy kisses along his skin. John groaned and pulled her hips back into his more aggressively. Her breath caught a bit as she felt the hard length of his erection through his jeans, a pair that felt rather tighter than they had before he’d left. John’s head spun a bit in the whirlwind of sensation; the press of bodies, the sound of laughter and music and panting breath, the smell of sweat and alcohol. The heat of the club was nothing like the heat of the desert, and if he concentrated, he could almost pretend that his mouth didn’t still taste like sand.

The song ended and the girl in his arms, _er, woman_ , _she’s at least as old as I am_ , turned to give him a once-over. She leaned in close, pressed against him. Her lips brushed his ear as she spoke.

“You’re cute. I know it’s early, but…” she cocked her head toward the door invitingly. John shivered slightly, smiled, but shook his head.

“Waiting for a mate, said I’d meet him here for a celebratory pint,” his smile and small shrug were all polite apologies and charm. “He just got a promotion.”  

“That’s too bad.” The blonde squeezed his bicep gently, raked fake pink-painted nails over the join of soft cotton and tanned skin. Her red top had ridden up a bit while they danced, revealing a stripe of faux-tanned skin above her black mini. “I’ve got a weak spot for soldiers.”

 _I could tell her to stay_ , he thought briefly, dark blue eyes roaming over her face and down her curvy body. _That I’ll be back. She’d likely wait. Be an easy enough pull…_

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone vibrating in his pocket, pulsing against her hip as well as his own. He stepped back to remove it, and shook his head at her with a sorry little smile. _Too easy_. “That’ll be Mike. Ta, for the dance.” He pressed a brief, chaste kiss to her cheek and turned, eager to move on.

John moved through the crowd effortlessly. His hips swung a bit in time with the thumping bass, but his brain was already focused on the bar beyond the dance floor. As he slipped through the throng, he caught the eye of a beefy bloke sitting alone near the end.

“Stamford! About time you got here, mate,” John grinned and threw an arm around Mike Stamford’s shoulders. Well, a bit around them; the stool Mike was sitting on put him somewhat out of reach. Anyway, he’d tried.

“Sorry, sorry, students are a nightmare and I can’t even walk through Bart’s without someone needin’ me to take a look at a bleedin’ chart.” John had to lean close to hear him over the music pounding in his ears. He didn’t mind. This was what leave was about: loud music, cold brew, hot bodies. Mike pushed a pint into his hands and smiled.

“Thanks, mate. No worries, though. Gotta be stressful, trying to practice and learn how to teach at the same time, yeah?” John settled on a stool and took a long pull of his ale. It was shockingly cold, and the contrast in his warm mouth made his teeth hurt a bit.

“Can we please not talk about job stress, John? I already feel like a pillock for pulling you out when you ought to be home visiting Harry or... something.”

“Who says Harry’s even home?” John pasted on a tight grin, shoulders tensing. “I’ve seen her flat. Seen her dirty clothes thrown about the place in the morning. I’ve seen her fucking girlfriend. But I’ve been home four days and haven’t seen my dear sister yet.”

Mike looked uncomfortable for a moment and then plowed ahead. “The bottle again, eh?”

“When’s it not?” John shrugged and downed half his pint in one go. “Listen, I’d rather go the next three years without thinking about my sister, yeah?” He smiled more genuinely this time, though there was obvious bitterness in the edges.

“Of course. Seen Murray yet? Bastard was supposed to wait for me at Bart’s after dropping by to visit, but he sent me a text saying he’d come over early.”

“I think I saw him earlier, talking to some girls out on a hen do. You know Bill,” John wiggled his eyebrows lasciviously.

“I know Bill? That’s rich coming from you,” Mike lifted one eyebrow and John flushed a bit. “Three Continents Watson home on leave for two weeks? The birds here will have to fight you off with a stick.”

“Ach, no. Not as young as I once was, Stamford.”

“Yeah, well, you may not be getting any younger, but you’re definitely getting fitter,” Mike grumbled. “And you probably want to move up a shirt size. Looks like your seams are going to burst there.” He nodded toward the cotton stretched over John’s shoulders, a bit broader than they’d been before he left.

“Oi, leave my shirt alone. Not all of us have kept our trim civilian figures, okay?”

“On my count, none of us have,” Mike gestured toward his expanding middle. John just rolled his eyes a bit.

Broad hands clapped down on both of their outermost shoulders, pulling them together as a slightly drunk Nurse Murray leaned in between them.

“Johnny,” he slurred a bit, but his eyes were bright and his brow smooth, “There’s… there are some birds, over here, told ‘em about you, that you’re a phuz… physi… a doctor, mate. They want to meet ya.” Bill’s face was open and warm, and his large brows waggled in the direction of the ladies. John glanced out at the dance floor. Mike took his glass and pushed him off his stool.

“Go. I’ll watch your drink, yeah? Go rub off on some disgusting clubgoers. Get it out of your system so we can watch the game without worrying about you wandering off to find a lay.” John just grinned, took one last swig of his ale before putting it down next to Mike’s, and sauntered back toward the pulsing crowd, one hand on Bill’s arm so they wouldn’t get separated.

 

* * *

 

 

“For fuck’s sake, Trevor, why do you insist on bringing me places like this?” Sherlock’s head lolled against the side of the toilet stall. He considered, briefly, hitting it again, but the slight buzz he got from pain was nothing like the one Victor had promised him tonight.

“Takes time, _Holmes_ ,” Victor drawled back, taking a long puff from his cigarette. “S’not like you can just buy it at a shop. Didn’t say you had to wait in here, though.”

“Oh, what, I’m supposed to go out there and… _mingle_?” He spat the word, acid against his young, agile, addicted tongue.

“Who knows? Maybe you’ll find somebody to come down with, and I won’t have to deal with your depressing arse in the morning, yeah?” Victor raised his eyebrows and grinned, teasing. Sherlock flinched. It was a small movement, but it was enough. “Sherlock, wait, I didn’t mean it, I’m–”

“Don’t bother, Trevor. This is business. We’re all perfectly aware,” Sherlock uncurled, exiting the stall in a flurry of disjointed movement that should have looked graceless but didn’t. “Text me when you have it. I’ll be out… finding someone.”

The club was packed. Bodies writhed on the dance floor, so many serpentine limbs of one great Lovecraftian creature, disgusting and brainless without a head to steer them. Their various menial motivations screamed in his head: _bad break up, sex addiction, looking for someone to fund her High Street habit, wants to try sex with a man, just found out her father’s not her father,_ _girlfriend cheated on her with her roommate, he’s at the very least a potential sexual predator_ – _well, that’s certainly unfortunate._

Sherlock’s eyes roved the bar until they settled on an empty stool near the end, next to an overweight man with a receding hairline and three pints in front of him. He sauntered up and dropped down. Doctor, and unattractive, wouldn’t do at all, but intelligent enough not to be completely infuriating and completely straight, therefore harmless this time of the night. The man had a… sort of kind face, jovial almost, the sort of face that would eventually have jowls and rounded cherubic cheeks but for now just hinted at softening bone structures from too many chips on late nights.

“Not one of John’s, I suppose?” the man spoke. Sherlock lifted one exceedingly well-groomed eyebrow. “Nah, you’re a bit young,  don’t look like his normal, but you never know with John. I’m Mike. Mike Stamford.” The man held out his hand. Sherlock ignored it.

“You’re awfully chatty with strangers, Mike Stamford,” was all he said in return.

“Well, don’t be a stranger then,” Mike offered back, withdrawing his hand. He took a large swig of one of the pints and offered one of the others to Sherlock. Sherlock just wrinkled his nose and gestured toward the bartender.

“Brandy,” he said at the man behind the bar, thin and fit but just on the wrong side of interesting, verging into unattractive. “Will.” He said to Mike.

“Nice to meet you Will,” Mike grinned placidly. “Fake name, eh? S’okay. I think John used to use one too, before the military.”

“You’ve said his name twice now,” Sherlock deftly sidestepped the discussion of his name. “On your mind?”

“Oh, you know, old friends come back a bit different than when they left,” Mike took another drink. “But not too different. Just enough to be a bit… off.”

“Do they?” Sherlock swirled his own drink before taking a small sip, rolling the liquor around in his mouth. His hands shook, just slightly, and he drummed his fingers on the bar, wondering how much longer Victor was planning to take.

“Never had a friend faff off to parts unknown, then, Will?”

“Never had a friend, as such,” Sherlock smiled, all teeth. “Just… associates.” Mike raised an eyebrow but didn’t offer a rebuttal. _Not so difficult to tell, then_ , Sherlock thought. A ruckus from the edge of the dancefloor drew Sherlock’s attention, and Mike’s as well.

“That’ll be Bill,” Mike laughed, wiping condensation off his glass. Sherlock watched carefully as a large ginger man - _nurse, combat, school friend, straight, humorous, lower-middle class, David Bowie lover_ \- was pulled bodily from the crush by a short blond. Sherlock watched with one eyebrow eloquently raised as the blond - _soldier, medical officer, anger issues, family history of addiction, bisexual, drowning_ \- wrestled his friend - Bill, had to be - over to their stools.

“So, Bill, who’d you insult this time?” Mike grinned, handing him a pint. Bill took a large swig of it before squeezing himself between Mike and the stranger sitting to Mike’s right. The blond stood a bit away, tensed and watching the crowd.

“Ah, Mike, you always think it’s me. It was John this time!” Bill gestured extravagantly, spilling alcohol on himself. Sherlock bit his lip to keep from laughing. If nothing else, these idiots were more aggressively entertaining than the rest of the bunch.

“You know, Bill, you’re right. It absolutely _was_ me who told the maid of honor that she couldn’t be sure she was a lesbian until she’d had sex with a guy, I’d completely forgotten,” John crossed his arms over his chest, still vibrating in anticipation of a fight. Sherlock couldn’t help himself; laughter burbled up out of his chest like so many champagne bubbles, popping in the sodium-and-violet light. Three sets of eyes, brown, green, and an interesting navy, swivelled to meet his.

“This is Will. We’ve been chatting,” Mike said, raising his glass. “Student, or was one recently. He doesn’t have friends, Will’s not his actual name, and I’m fairly sure he’s here for drugs, though it could be sex, who knows. John, you’ll probably get along smashing. Doesn’t look it, but he’s your type.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened with shock just for a moment before he shot back, “Mike Stamford, unattached heterosexual, practicing doctor and new teacher at Bart’s, volunteers on weekends at the animal shelter, hates cars, intelligent but not especially driven, which is why his girlfriend broke up with him three weeks ago. Well, that, and the thirty-four additional pounds in the last two years. And, well, also the fact that she usually prefers women.” He took a deep breath, preparing for the familiar pressure of angry hands on his body.

“Told you Clara played for the other team, mate,” John offered a sympathetic grin before turning toward Sherlock. “Go on then, tell us how you knew. Mike’s perceptive, but that was bloody amazing.”

Sherlock paused, swaying slightly on his stool.

“What did you say?”

“I asked how you did it,” John leaned forward, louder. “John Watson by the way, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Home on leave, but you probably knew that already, right?” John grinned over at Mike, who smiled back.

“What did you mean, I’m his type?” Sherlock asked, brow furrowed.

“Ah, John generally goes in for the brainy ones over the beauties,” Bill piped in, “Though his pull quality’s been gettin’ better, Stamford. Must be the other two continents, yeah?” The large man laughed at his own joke, nudging Mike with an elbow, and was rewarded with a grin. John scowled.

“I don’t ‘go in’ for anybody,” he said. “I just prefer my companions to have two brain cells to rub together, yeah? For the life of me, I cannot understand how I end up hanging with you lot all the time.”

“So don’t!” Mike grinned, pushing John toward Sherlock’s stool. “For goodness sake, go dance with the mind reader and escape our dull company.”

John offered Sherlock his hand. “Care to get away from these complete arseholes?” he smiled.

“Ah… gladly.”

The music pulsed loud in Sherlock’s ears as they pushed through the crowds, made his blood thrum in his veins. John’s hand in his was hot, burning, like a coal. The occasional flash of club lights on John’s face highlighted the strong features, the hard cut of his jaw, his serene expression. Sherlock’s stomach coiled tight as he followed John into the crush, allowed himself to be pulled into the deepest part of the throbbing mass. Bodies surrounded them both on all sides, but John held tight to his hand, pulled him close behind in his wake. The song switched, a rough thumping rhythm, and John spun, quick and easy. His arms slid around Sherlock, one hot hand on his waist and the other gripping the back of his neck, pulling him in. Their bodies slotted together, easier than Sherlock remembered it being with anyone else except, perhaps, Victor. The thought of his… friend… in the toilets trading daddy’s money for concentrated pleasure made Sherlock’s skin burn and his stomach roil at the same time.

“Hey, hey,” John squeezed the back of his neck, bringing his attention back to the slow grind of their hips, the stifling heat of John’s body. “You have someone else here to be concerned about?”

“Ah, not as such, no,” Sherlock stumbled, trying to keep his thoughts from splaying all over his face. He’d been practicing, had gotten much better at it with the idiots from uni, but apparently John was not so easily fooled.

“Then let’s keep that pretty head right here, eh?” John didn’t seem perturbed, just very present.

“Your friend… Mike? He said I didn’t look like your… type,” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, his hands finding one another around John’s shoulders.

“Do I seem like the type to dance with someone I’m not interested in?” John’s features were placid, serene. The tension he’d held at the bar was mostly gone, which was surprising since he was dancing with a complete stranger. Sweat gathered at his hairline, turning blond hair dark. His shirt pulled attractively over his shoulders, growing slightly damp under the hot press of Sherlock’s arms around him. The club was warm, much warmer than it had seemed before John pulled him onto the dance floor, and Sherlock pushed his shirtsleeves up in response, wishing he’d chosen something a bit less restrictive. A bit more like the smooth cotton stretched over John’s muscular form.

“Honestly? Yes,” Sherlock deadpanned. John laughed, a clear, high, bubbling sound that cut through the rumbling bass of the music.

“You’ve got me there,” John grinned, his eyes crinkling attractively. “But don’t worry. I want to be here.” John ground his hips into Sherlock’s pointedly, punctuating his statement.

“While I’m pleased, I must say, I have difficulty understanding why,” Sherlock confessed, pointedly staring over John’s shoulder rather than at his face.

“Well, we’ll need to address that, then.” John slid his hands away from Sherlock’s body and for a startling moment, Sherlock found himself mentally flailing, cursing the directness that was driving John away. _Just like Victor_ , the words flashed through his head before he clamped down firmly on that line of thinking. He pulled himself up, preparing to make his way back through the crowd and out into the cool night air where he could breathe, could think, could be _above_ for a while.

But then he felt John against him again, John’s back against his chest, John’s arse pressing to the tops of his thighs. Without a second thought, Sherlock bent his knees, bringing his hips down to roll against the swell of John’s arse. For one brilliant moment his vision fogged and all he saw was the luminescence of John’s cropped blond hair under ultraviolet light, strands of white glowing brilliantly in the dark. He wrapped his arms around John’s waist, holding him close as the music pulled their bodies into sync. The dance was filthy perfect, an obvious precursor, clothed foreplay. John’s body rolled against his own in a sweet counterpoint, scratching an itch Sherlock hadn’t even thought about in ages, but was now all-consuming. Songs changed, time passed, but for once in his life Sherlock was cognizant of nothing but the intimate press of another body against his, of the heat growing in his belly, burning through his limbs.

John tipped his head back onto Sherlock’s shoulder and spoke quietly into his ear. “I wanted to be here. And now I really want to be somewhere else. With you. Alone.”

Sherlock nodded, turning to fight his way through the crowd, but John pulled him back once more.

“I don’t go home with strangers, Will,” he smiled, running one hand up Sherlock’s chest.

“It’s Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes,” the words flowed out of his mouth before Sherlock could stop them, but it was okay, he didn’t want to, he needed John to know.

“Well then, Sherlock,” John’s lips pursed around his name, beautiful and strange. “Shall we?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I am the worst. Haha. Many thanks to [Hedwig](http://hedwig-dordt.tumblr.com) and Ollie for giving this a good beta read. [Red](http://redscudery.tumblr.com), this is for you. <3

The night air felt brilliant against John’s skin, damp and warm from the club. He held tightly to Sherlock’s hand, pulling him out into the lively hum of the street, so much quieter after the throb of the club. A buzz had been growing under his skin since he’d first seen Sherlock’s face, unearthly under the ultraviolet glow. Now, under pale streetlamps, the man looked even stranger: the gaunt cut of his cheeks, soft slide of his chin into his neck, big wide eyes framed by dark-as-night lashes as long and curly as any girl’s. John ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, stroking the dampened curls back from the pale skin of his face. Sherlock moved into the gesture like a cat, bumping his head against John’s hand and closing his eyes in mute pleasure. John scritched his fingernails against Sherlock’s scalp, just a hunch, and smiled as the young man groaned, his mouth falling slack.

“You’re just perfect for petting,” John sighed, slipping his hand down to Sherlock’s gorgeous nape. Sherlock’s eyes snapped back open and he stepped back, but John went with him. “Oh no you don’t,” John laughed. “Surely you’re not going to deny yourself the joy of pleasure, just to deny me the joy of seeing it.”

“I am… not in the habit of denying myself, no,” Sherlock admitted, a pretty blush painting his cheeks. John’s blood rushed in his ears at the sight, the sound, Sherlock’s words rumbling out of that gorgeous throat and passing like a caress over his skin. Lust crashed over John’s body like a tidal wave, leaving him breathless and wanting. Abruptly, he pulled Sherlock toward the alley next to the club, eager to get them both back into the relative familiarity of the dark.

“Fuck, you can’t just…” John groaned, pressing Sherlock against the wall with one hand behind his head, the other burning a brand on his hip.

Bill and Mike hadn’t been joking; John had acquired quite a reputation even before he’d joined the military, and all manner of men and women both had joined him in his bed, his bunk, _hell_ , the club toilet. None of them had felt quite like _this_ , though, this quick, burning desperation driving his body forward, pushing his hands, his hips, his lips against Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock’s hands rested on the skin of his waist, pushed up under his shirt, and the cool night air on his back grounded John, helped him focus. Under his lips and teeth, the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock’s neck and jaw flushed pink and tender. John shuddered as he watched that perfect flesh pink up, and ground out, “What are you doing to me?”

Sherlock’s head tipped to the side, offering the expanse of throat that John hadn’t touched yet.

“Well, whatever it is, don’t let me stop,” Sherlock huffed, and John grinned against his skin.  He pulled Sherlock’s head down, skillfully guiding that sinful mouth to his own, and for a moment John just lost himself in the push and pull of wet heat, agile tongue, the soft scrape of barely-there stubble. Their hips pressed together, rutting rough and dirty through layers of denim and cotton, hard and hot and too close, _too close_. Sherlock whined against his mouth, squeezing John’s ribs, his waist, his hips, like he couldn’t help himself. John was on fire.

“Fuck, okay, okay, stop.” John pulled back, panting, one hand still buried in dark curls. Above him, Sherlock heaved a deep breath, and then laughed, a low rumble straight from his chest.

“What’s this then?” John asked, chuckling as well.

“I just… this is…” Sherlock trailed off, chewing his bottom lip as he rubbed his head against John’s hand unconsciously. John grinned and wound his hand deeper into Sherlock’s hair. “Not what I was expecting tonight. That’s all.” John lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t go looking for- What I mean is, I don’t do…”

“You seemed very much on the pull to me,” he said carefully, attempting to quietly extricate his fingers from the tangles of Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock caught his wrist before he could pull away. His face was soft under the muted moonlight, wide eyes darting back toward the club entrance before meeting John’s once more.

“Please do not misunderstand,” the words tumbled out of Sherlock’s mouth as he tugged John’s wrist. John fell against him easily as posh, distinguished desperation hit his ears. “What I mean is, I had no intention of finding you. I wasn’t sure you existed to be found.”

John raised his brows, but then Sherlock was kissing him again, whirling them around so that John’s back hit the wall with a quiet thud. Sherlock’s fingers found his waistband unerringly, cool skin brushing against the softly furred skin of his belly.

“Right here in the alleyway, is it then?” John grinned, a little drunk on the recklessness of it all.

“Don’t want to wait,” Sherlock sighed into his mouth, freeing his cock from the confines of his jeans and boxer briefs. The pull of long fingers against his heated skin had John arching forward, head thumping painfully against the brick. Sherlock’s eyes crinkled with mirth. “Want to have you right here, and then back at mine, at least twice, just to test out as many variables as-”

“Here for another ten days. We can test all the variations you like,” John grunted, rubbing the back of his head. In seconds, Sherlock was on his knees in the filthy alleyway.

“Would you like me to -?” he looked up, wide-eyed and hesitant. John curled a gentle hand into his hair, tugging him forward.

“Whatever you want, love.”

The first tentative press of Sherlock’s mouth was an epiphany. His hot breath ghosted over John’s cock, and if the plump bow of his lips had been pornographic without anything between them, John could hardly be blamed for his reaction once they opened for him. His hips rocked forward without his permission, sliding smooth and deep into the heat of Sherlock’s mouth, but there was no expected spluttering. Instead, Sherlock groaned around his flesh, reverberations spinning him higher. His cock slid against Sherlock’s soft palate, head pushing gently at the young man’s throat, and John couldn’t help himself really.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, stroking one hand down the side of Sherlock’s face. A flash of something - irritation, maybe, or just dizzied arousal - played over Sherlock’s face as he sucked harder, meaner. “What a lovely thing your mouth is, Sherlock. So wet for me, couldn’t even wait to get out of the alley, just here on your knees like you couldn’t stand to be without me. Makes me so hot, sweetheart.”

Sherlock bobbed his head more quickly, stroking his tongue against the underside of John’s cock with long, skillful swipes. Below he could see the work of Sherlock’s hand in his own lap, pulling at his cock through the fly of his jeans.

“Yes, that’s it, touch yourself, gorgeous,” John nodded, tightening his fingers in Sherlock’s hair. “There you are, just like that. Feels so good, love. Want to be buried in you for days.”

He flushed a bit at the truth in that. John Watson on the pull was a force to be reckoned with, but he was after the challenge, the chase, running after mutual satisfaction together and then parting with a fast kiss and a wink. This, though…

_I could do this_ , he thought, breath caught in his throat. _I could do this, always_.

The thought sent him reeling, hands tight in Sherlock’s hair and cock buried to the hilt, prodding at Sherlock’s throat. He looked down, face blood-hot and broken open, and met the cool brilliance of verdigris eyes under the dim streetlamps. Sherlock swallowed around him, eyes watering a bit but the hint of a smile at the corners just the same, and John lost it.

“Baby, sweetheart, please,” he begged, trying to pull away. Sherlock’s hands fit around his hips, pushing him hard back against the wall and following with that sinful mouth. He tugged once, twice on John’s bollocks, caressing the sensitive skin there with quick, artful fingers, and John felt the pleasure cresting over him sure as a tidal wave. It crashed, his own heartbeat thumping loud in his ears. He jerked hard, curling protectively over Sherlock’s curly head and spilling himself in Sherlock’s mouth, all white heat-shocked pleasure tumbling out of his mouth in a groan.

Sherlock held him through it, suckling softly at his spent cock as the final waves of orgasm rushed over him.

“Up, up, come here,” John ordered, pulling him up off his knees. His hand immediately found Sherlock’s cock in the darkness. He pulled Sherlock in for a kiss, tasting himself in that red wet mouth, and tugging fast and furious at his cock. Sherlock moaned, soft and surprised as John pulled his pleasure from him, until he spilled suddenly over John’s hand.

“Fuck,” he sighed, eloquent as ever. John grinned.

“Not until we get to yours, yeah?”

“Er, well, yes…” Sherlock looked away like perhaps he was uncomfortable, eyes lingering on the middle distance past John’s head, toward the street.

“Hey, none of that,” John shook his head, wiping his hand off on the spare handkerchief he kept in his pocket. “If you want to part ways here, that’s fine, but we do it on good terms. Honestly.”

“Is that what you would like, then?” Sherlock stiffened a bit, before sighing and slumping against the wall. He tucked himself back in surreptitiously. “To separate amicably so you can go back to your dance floor, and I can…”

He paused, face twisting with something sad and lonely.

“I never said that,” John smiled, and pulled his own pants back into place. “I’d like to stay with you. If you want me to.”

Sherlock fiddled absently with his shirt tail before huffing and standing up straight, staring back toward the club. John simply watched and waited.

_I could do this always._

After a long moment, Sherlock turned back to him, a decision plain on his face and shoulders settled.

“Ten days you said?”

“And every one of them yours if you’ll have them,” John grinned in return.

Sherlock reached for him, twining their hands together in an intimate embrace. “Then I’ll have you.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback is valuable to all fic writers, and I'm no exception. If you enjoyed this story, please let me know.
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://quicklikelight.tumblr.com).


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